Fletcher
by M. Sullivan
Summary: Rebecca Fletcher had no home or family, and one day finds herself lost in Sherwood Forest. Who are these people, and are they trying to kill her? And why does that man keep looking at her like that? RobinMarian FluffFic
1. Chapter 1: Faire

England, 2007

"Archers! Take your positions!"

Feet apart, back straight, shoulders back.

"Load your bows!"

Hook the arrow onto the string, hold the bow in front of you, pointing the arrow down.

"Aim!"

Bring the bow up quickly, pulling back the arrow in the same movement and rest the tip of it on your fist. Hold your arm steady, keep your eyes open, aim for the center of the target.

"Fire!"

A dozen bows twang as the other contestants let loose almost as soon as the announcer finishes the word. I take a deep breath and let loose a second after the others.

The arrow speeds to the target directly in front of me, cutting the air with a sound like water droplets through a straw.

It lands dead center, as I knew it would.

I let my bow down and wipe my forehead, smiling at my certain victory. Beside me are men and women in various types of period costume, some plain-dressed peasants, others richly adorned nobles, and one or two Robin Hoods.

I think they're crazy. But there aren't many other places where my area of expertise is practiced.

The man in charge of the event walks to the target 50 feet away, while the crowd cheers for the only person to miss the target. Gregory the Great, or something. He laughs it off, blaming his misfortune on the glare of the sun, even though we've had solid cloud cover for almost two weeks now.

Maybe it's different for Englishmen, but to my New Jersey self it's dark, cold, and bleary. And I grew up near Philadelphia

Searching through the arrows on the target, the announcer pulls out mine from the center and quickly glances at the black fletching on the end of the arrow. "And the winner of this year's archery competition is... the Black Archer!"

A halfhearted cheer goes up as the crowd around the yard begins to clear. The American female bested them at something these people are renowned for, so I'm not offended. Much.

I shake a few hands and flash a few smiles and leave the yard as well. The contest lasted three hours from trials to finals, and I'm starved. Time to make my way to the local McDonalds after picking up my prize.

The announcer approaches me, followed by a tall older women made up to be some gnarled gypsy. The announcer holds a ribbon and an envelope, and the woman keeps her hands folded in front of her.

"Congratulations, Miss Fletcher," the announcer says with only a slight accent. "That's... how many faires have you won now?"

"Six this season, eight this year, I think," I reply with a forced smile as my stomach gives an audible rumble. "I'm hoping this check'll pay for a room and a nice burger."

The man looks shocked. "A burger? Here? With all this fine food that's been roasting away? Surely you'd want something a little more festive than a burger!" The women at his side says nothing, only regards me with small gray eyes.

I shrug, wondering why my reputation as an archer seems to spread like wildfire, but not my dislike of Renaissance faires. "Americans like their burgers, I guess."

Nodding, the announcer hands me the small blue ribbon in his hand as well as the envelope. "Well, all right. Here's your prizes: $50 and the Sherwood Forest Robin Hood Festival ribbon. You sure you don't want..."

"No, really, it's fine," I'm so hungry my stomach hurts. I eye the old lady, trying to convey this thought to her through my gaze. She's a gypsy, she should be able to read minds. Or at least, she might be a gypsy.

She looks to be in her fifties, with graying hair tucked up into a faded yellow kerchief. Around her neck are about a half dozen thick golden chains, reminding me of the way my brothers used to dress up before they got the crap beaten out of them and went to college. Her dress is long undyed linen, making it a shade of old sweat. The effect is to make her resemble a peasant trying to dress like a rapper from Russia. She even has a gold tooth.

"I have something else for you, Rebecca, if you'd care to follow me to my booth," rasps the woman.

"Uh, sure. It wouldn't happen to be food, would it?" I joke. She shakes her head, but smiles in a knowing way. "Alright, lead on." I unzip one of the pockets in my cargo pants to place the ribbon and check inside for safekeeping and follow the woman as she weaves through the few people still wandering around the faire. It's almost dusk, and most visitors will be at the pasture in the forest for the Robin Hood play the local high school was putting on.

The smell of roasting meat is thick in the evening air. We're walking along a deserted aisle of booths selling everything from handmade jewelry to princess caps to child-sized bow and arrow sets.

Lovely. Let's give the children more ways to put out their eyes.

We walk for less than five minutes when we come to what must be the woman's booth. Or, more correctly, table. On top rest several boxes varying from jewelry-sized to shoe box, all made of wood and carved with different designs. Candles give off a warm glow reflected in the glass of a handful of necklaces lying towards to front, just begging for a thief to come and snatch them. Behind the table is a simple stool and a basket of knitting.

The woman picks up one of the boxes; a small thing about the size of her palm. Crossed arrows are carved onto the top of it.

"Here it is, Rebecca. I think this would be an excellent prize for an archer of your... renown." _Is her accent English? _I think, _It sounds... like something that isn't English._

I never claimed to be articulate.

She hands the box to me. "Open it," she says with anticipation. She glances between me and the box, a triumphant gleam in her eye.

I take the box and do as I'm told, lifting off the lid. Inside is a necklace, the pendent a wooden rectangle about an inch and a half long and half an inch wide. It's looks as if someone's burned a small design onto it: a circle with an arrow through it. The pendent is strung through a short leather thong. _It would make a cute choker, _I think.

"They say it belonged to Robin Hood himself," says the old woman, still looking as if she's fighting the urge to cheer. "I would think that the best archer in England would want to wear it."

I look up at her, my face turning red. "Oh, thank you, um, ma'am, but I wouldn't say that, I mean, I've only competed in faires, not any actual competitions..."

"And why is that, may I ask? From what I've heard every shot you've made has been a bull's eye, you've never missed a ring when they throw them in the air, and I also hear tell you're making a living off your winnings. You travel alone, only showing up for the archery competitions at faires before disappearing until the next one. And you'd make a lot more money if you'd enter a hunting competition with one of those modern bows." She looks at my recurve resting on my shoulder, a simple birch bow I'd won at some other faire a few years ago. It was small, light, and powerful, and the answer to my curses against the monstrous, heavy, stupid, cumbersome English longbow that I _loathe_ with a -

"Are you all right, dear?"

I realize I'd been glaring at the ground for almost ten seconds while I contemplated the evil that is the longbow. "I'm fine, sorry. Just spaced out... Uhm, I don't know why I never enter any other competitions. I guess I just love using the old-fashioned bows too much. Those contraptions take all the skill out of shooting. Plus they're obnoxious."

The woman gives me yet another knowing smile. I wish she would stop it.

"Here, let me put this on you, dear." She lifts the choker out of the box I'd been holding out in front of me. I pull my braid across my shoulder and let her tie it on. It fits great.

"Lovely," she says, smiling. "A perfect fit. By the way, would you mind doing me a favour?" She walks behind her table and pulls out a wicker basket covered with a checkered cloth. "My friend Betty is in the pasture in the woods, out where they're holding the play. Would you mind giving her dinner to her? She forgot to take it with her to the snack booth."

I raise an eyebrow. God, I love being able to do that.

The woman chuckles. "She's allergic to wheat, otherwise I'd tell her exactly what you're thinking. Tell her it's from Fi, and that I said to give you some free fries. McDonalds is sponsoring her booth."

Yay!

"I'd be happy to... Fi?" I reply.

She nods, and bends down to pull out a long green blanket-thing from under the table. "You should take this cloak, too. It's getting chilly. Just leave it with Betty before you leave." Apparently she's noticed that I'm wearing a black tank top during an English fall.

Hey, black is my signature. It just so happens that combat boots, cargo pants, and tank tops match the two-fingered fletcher's gloves I'd won from the faire in Pennsylvania. I look pretty badass, if I do say so myself.

The woman tosses me the cloak and I drop my bow on the ground to put it on. It's wool, and smells like roses. The clasp is an old pin that looks like the Tara brooch, sending a twinge in my Irish-loving heart and I begin to fight the inner battle that would result in me taking the cloak with me to my car. I put up the hood, grab my bow and basket, and I know that I must look like -

"You look like a cross between Little Red and Robin Hood." she mocks. "It's cute."

"Heh, I guess."

"Just turn straight around and follow that road into the woods," she points behind me, "it'll bring you right behind the snack booths in the pasture." By now it looks as if she's going to pee herself with glee.

I turn to go, and she kisses me on top of my head.

I am officially scared.

"Safe journey, dear," she says as I start to skip off, decide it's too idiotic looking to be worth it, and slow down to a stroll.

If there is a serial killer on that road, I am going to be so pissed.


	2. Chapter 2: Forest

For twenty or so minutes I walked in those woods, eyeing the dense foliage on either side of me for signs of movement. It wasn't paranoia that caused this behavior, but the fear of being alone in the woods that I've had for as long as I can remember.

It was a peaceful enough environment: the setting sun gave a romantic glow to the oak, birch and pine trees that grew on the slopes leading down to the narrow road. The leaves and vines were the shade of emerald green that can only be found in England, and the smell was indescribable. Damp earth, trees, and the flowers that grew every few feet combined into a comforting aroma that helped to quell my fears of being eaten by Bigfoot. But only barely.

The woods had also grown strangely quiet after the first hundred feet or so. This caused me to wonder at the gypsy-costumed lady's directions. Perhaps this wasn't the way to the field? Maybe there _was_ a serial killer in these woods, and she'd served as the bait? Could he be watching me even now, waiting for his chance to leap out at me, slit my throat and drink my life's blood?

Actually, that sort of thinking was kind of sexy. Terrifying, of course, but sexy.

My mind began to fill with the thoughts of my erotic demise, and as usual when I go into "Rebecca Land" as my teachers, trainers, and psychologist called it, I failed to notice my surroundings anymore. Every cell in my brain was straining to envision this unlikely encounter, to place the wild man that would prove my undoing into my mental image of the woods. I tried to think of what his voice would sound like, how tall he would be, what he would say before he grabbed me and -

"Hello, traveler." said a cheerful male voice.

"OH MY FREAKING GOD-DAMNED GOD!" I shrieked.

My arms went up automatically to shield my face, hitting myself with my bow and basket before dropping them, and I leaped back and lost my balance, landing on the ground. This was it, my daydreams - or nightmare, in this case - had finally come true; I'd succeeded in fooling Murphy's Law of opposites which was usually what ruled my life; I was going to die, curled up here on the ground and blind to the world...

"Damn it, Will, what did you do to him? I think you scared him to death!" said a deeper voice, also male.

"All I said was, 'hello', not ' I'm going to kill you.'" said the first one - Will? - sounding remorseful.

"You should be more loud when announcing yourself, then."

Another voice, not English, said, "I think you have sent her into shock; she is shaking like mad."

"She?" said the voice I shall call Will, "how can you be sure?"

"We can recognize our own kind's special scent." I detected slight sarcasm.

Automatically I added, "It's specific to our species," because I'm so clever that I have to show it off.

"I told you," said the one that was most likely a woman.

The thought occurred to me to roll over and stretch out of the fetal position. If I was going to die, I would watch. I followed through on this decision, and I opened my eyes.

Bending over me were three faces - a young man's (too kind looking to be the evil doer), a tan woman with short black hair (I refused to believe one of my own gender would be so vile), and a very large, very scruffy man with a wide, fleshy face and nose and small eyes. That must be him, I decided. All three of them were wearing worn out costumes, probably stolen from the faire.

"If you're going to kill me, please make it quick. Pain makes me sneeze," said I to the scruffy man in the most emotionless voice I could manage. Maybe if he thinks I won't struggle, he'll be lenient.

"We're not going to kill you, lass," said Scruffy The Reluctant Serial Rapist, "just rob you. Though with the state you're in we may let you off."

I blinked at him several times. "Oh, well that's comforting. Rob me of what, exactly?"

"Miss," said the woman, "do you want to sit up? This is an awkward way to stand."

"I think I will, actually," I said, starting to do as she'd suggested. The young man offered a hand which I did not take as I shakily got to my feat. The faces and the trees did a little dance before righting themselves, and I wobbled a bit before my bearings returned. My bow was on the ground next to me; the basket on the other side of the road, its contents (bread, cheese, a mason jar of water) strewn out.

Once I stopped shaking I'd grab my bow and hit Scruffy in the face with it and bolt back the way I'd come.

All three looked at me with concern. "Are you all right? I am sorry if I scared you," said the young man I realized must be Will. The sweet voice matched the kindness in his eyes. He must be bipolar, kind one mintes, murderous the next.

"It's fine, I wasn't scared," I replied, brushing leaves and dirt off my cloak and pants. "That's just how I normally react to meeting new people," I smiled through my hyperventilation.

The three of them exchanged the looks I'd become accustomed to seeing on people's faces, looks that said something to the effect of, "Um, okay, she's weird."

I wasn't even offended. Much.

Dead leaves crackled as someone came running down the hill to the right. More sliding than running, actually. The man almost tumbled into Scruffy when he got to the bottom. He looked younger than his taller, wider counterpart and was much paler. He wore a faded orange beanie and green scarf, and a thinning white shirt.

Apparently Sherwood Forest lets serial killers work in their Robin Hood festivals. Although this one looked rather simple.

After running into Scruffy, Simple turned to me and opened his mouth as if to say something, but no sound came out. Shock spread quickly over his face as he continued to stare at me.

My breathing had returned to normal, and I began to slowly back away. I would grab my bow at the last second and sprint the mile or two back to the fairgrounds.

"What?" I asked, placing a puzzled expression on my face.

"You - you're - but you can't be..." stammered Simple, living up to my expectations.

For some reason I stopped to see if he would finnish his sentence. "I'm... what?" I queried. But more crashing and crunching signaled the arrival of yet another serial killer. They must have a clubhouse up there, or something.

"You all could have woken me, you know," came a light, amused voice as its owner gracefully strided down the hill. Male, light brown hair, scraggly beard, smiling, tall and slim, and - oooh la la, halloo Certain Death...

Certain Death turned and met my brown eyes with his bright blue ones, the picture of amusement and kindness. This faltered to shock, however, a second or so after seeing me.

And then pain split my skull in two. It felt as if my brain was trying to expand out of my skull, which was shrinking at the same time. My vision went black and as my hands tried to keep my head from bursting, I sank to my knees.

So this was what that Harry Potter kid felt like.

Damn.


	3. Chapter 3: Fireside

Images, dozens of images playing too quick to really see.

_He smiles at me and my heart skips a beat._

Emotions I don't remember ever feeling, or have never felt to that degree of intensity.

_Echoing laughter, chinking flatware, flutes and drums and ribbons and dancing._

Her face is warm and smiling, his is worried and loving.

_He brings me aside and pulls something out of his pocket, eyes dancing with fire and mischief..._

It feels as if my heart is falling in on itself, my stomach clenches, my face burns.

_I feel my lips move, he answers with a laugh that could melt rock._

I am inhaling fire.

_Brilliant blue eyes._

I awoke with a start, opening my eyes and seeing clear sky, a sky that is black and filled with diamonds. I was lying on the ground, with a blanket tucked around me and a folded cloth for a pillow. Next to me glowed a large fire, not a foot away, and above that fire was his face.

With a quick intake of breath I scooted back from the fire, but kept looking at him. It was the same kind face as before, and those eyes... the ones from my dream?

He smiled at me after a while. I realized he was leaning against a tree, his arms resting on knees that were bent in front of him. "A night for bad dreams, apparently,"

I flashed him a quick smile and sat up, beginning to examine my surroundings, my borrowed cloak - for it had been my blanket - clutched to my chin.

We were in a small clearing of trees, and beyond the fire it was just beginning to lighten. Crickets chirped slowly, a relaxing background concert. The night was cool, and above me the moon shone full. Around the fire lay Simple, Scruffy, Will, and the woman, all curled up and sleeping soundly. We were the only two awake.

Quickly I took inventory: Pants zipped, shirt, shoes and socks on, vision clear, breathing shallow, heartbeat going a mile a minute. Everything seemed normal and in place.

"I really should be getting back," I murmured just loud enough for him to hear. Wiping my forehead with a hand proved that my face was sweaty, though this was most likely from my dreams. I'd consider _them_, however, after I was safely on my way to a hotel room.

"You want to leave now? It's nearly dawn, and you fell down pretty hard. Djaq thinks you might have a concussion. Or was it just the pain of having to see my face?" he said smoothly, the firelight making his eyes twinkle.

"That must have been it, yeah," I replied, straight faced.

He smiled and turned his head to look into the forest beyond the warm firelit circle. "So where are you off to?"

I pulled the cloak around me so that I could put up its wide hood, sending my face into shadows. "Into the woods to grandma's house?" I replied, hoping this was a serial killer that knew his culture.

Apparently not, for he replied as if I was serious. "Your grandmother lives alone?" he asked, turning his head back to look at me.

I sighed. "Nevermind," I said, and started to stand, "I really should be going. Thank you for not leaving me unconscious in the middle of the road."

"Any time." He regarded me strangely, almost pained, and then said, "If you don't mind my asking, what is your name?"

I eyed him carefully before replying "Merryweather Louis." It was first name that popped into my head; please don't ask me why.

His face seemed to fall at this, and he looked away. "I had a... friend once, and she looked... a little bit like you. She left a long time ago." He looked at me again. I was reminded of a child following a conversation between two people, his head bouncing back and forth. "How old are you?"

What, was he seeing if I fitted into his category of usual victims? "Twenty-five," I replied, adding five years. I was told I looked old for my years. Maybe he didn't like 'em young.

He nodded and looked into the fire. I remained motionless. He looked familiar, although that may have been because he was dressed like the five million Robin Hoods I've seen over the years, though the costume was very tattered. He appeared gentle, but his eyes were sad.

"Alright, well," I said haltingly. "Can you tell me the way back to the parking lot?"

"The what?" He glanced up at me.

"The parking lot. You know, asphalt jungle. Cars. Gum."

"I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about. The nearest village is about a quarter-league down the road, though, if you want an inn for the rest of the night. But you really should not be traveling alone. The road is dangerous."

Obviously I'd been lucky enough to come across a delusional serial killer. Time to run.

"No, it's all right. Have a nice evening." I turned to go.

"Wait, miss, you forgot this." I looked back, and he picked my bow off of the ground beside him and stood up. Walking over, he said, "This is quite nice. Can you shoot it?"

"Decently enough," I replied, taking the weapon from him.

He smiled at me, and my heart fluttered a little. "Well, we should have a contest, then, before you go. It's almost morning anyway." He was right. His face was no longer bathed in firelight, but early-morning sun. and he seemed more cheerful.

"I don't have any arrows," I said, trying to sound regretful. This man _seemed_ nice enough, and was _quite_ adorable, but...

"Tha's all right, we've got plenty here." Seeing I was still reluctant, he said, "Tell you what, you beat me, you can walk out of here - alone - with a sack coin to show for it. Do we have a deal?" The way he was looking at me, with puppy-dog beggars eyes, made me want to swoon.

"Deal."

I am pathetic.


	4. Chapter 4: Clearing

A/N: Wow, it's been a while. Please thank Taylor Swift's "Love Story" for giving me enough inspiration to want to continue this. Honestly, it's been in my head since my last update, but this part was so difficult to write I almost gave up, so I shortened it and just put what needed to be said. I know it's crappy, but I just wanted to get this scene out of the way. More coming soon, and this time it shouldn't take six months - I hope.

The man walked back over to where we had been sitting when we first began to converse, and picked up a very large bow and a leather quiver that had about a dozen crudely made arrows in it. His bow looked like an old Middle-Eastern recurve, and was already strung.

"Do you always have the line tied up like that?" I asked before I could stop myself, nodding at the weapon. "The longer you keep it strung the more the string'll fray unless you have some super-expensive wire custom-made."

He turned and gave me the 'ol once over, an incredibly obvious guy maneuver that always made my blood boil. Was there no hope for male tact, even in serial killers?

"I'm always prepared," stated the man, before walking past me out of the clearing seeming to know where he was going. I followed him, trying not to laugh out loud at my stupidity.

_What are you doing? This guy probably wants to kill you, so you're following him out of the sight of witnesses, carrying a bunch of arrows that are probably this guy's favourite method of killing. You are dumb, and if you die, you'll deserve it._

I'm just brimming with self-confidence; can't you tell?

We walked for maybe a minute through thick foliage, with him just staring straight ahead, occasionally pausing to hold up a tree limb or loose brush out of my way. Each time he would look at me for just a second before turning to face forward again.

"What's your name, anyway?" I asked realizing I didn't know.

"Robin," came the pained reply. What was _with_ this guy? Why was he so - oh, wait, that's right: HE WAS GOING TO KILL ME.

Very quickly we came to another clearing, this one much larger than the camp. The sun had come up as we were walking, and it's light made the green forest around us shine. Birds were chirping as well, and the air felt perfect, with only a whisper of a breeze. English Fall seemed to have turned into spring almost overnight.

About 75 feet from where we were standing were three large bales of hay, maybe 6 feet high, each with round wooden disks that spanned the width and length of the bale. The one Robin moved to stand in parallel to was on the far right, and littered with what I could only assume were arrow marks. The middle and left targets were well-marked too, but not as much as Robin's target.

For a moment he looked confused, glancing at the target, me, then at the target again. Then, still carrying the quiver and bow, moved to stand next to me and dropped the quiver on the ground.

Pointing at the middle target, he said, "Five shots, closest to the middle wins. We'll take turns."

_This is it_, I thought to myself._ If I lose, I die. If I win... I'll probably still die. Time to make the best of this._

I brought my arm up in front of me, wanting to test the lineup of the notch I'd made just above the riser (the thick middle part of the bow where you put your hand) that helped me aim. When I'd lined that up with the bull's-eye, I brought my arm down and reached into the pocket on the lower leg of my cargo pants, where I kept my bowstring. With the deftness that comes from having done this for years, I quickly looped the length of twine around the limbs of my simple red birch short bow and then immediately brought it up and drew to check that I'd done this correctly, although I knew I had. Glancing sideways at Robin, I found that he looked a little impressed.

"Well then," he said, bending to pull an arrow out of the quiver. Offering it to me, "he said, "Ladies first" with such heat in his eyes and his tone that I almost forgot that I was about to die. Confused, I slowly took the arrow from him and he stopped back, still regarding me closely.

I shook myself and returned to the task at hand.

I put the arrow into the same hand as the one holding my bow and pulled my thick dark braid from off my right shoulder so it would hang down my back, almost to my waist. Then, everything goes like quick, precise clockwork: Feet go two feet apart so my heels are in line with the middle of the target, arrow goes into my right hand while my left elbow locks down at my side. Then the arrow's fletching is placed against my left wrist so the shaft rests along my thumb. Deep breath, then bring the bow up and the arrow back until the point lines up the target and... release!

The product of my preparation soared through the air, straight and true, to land exactly... right above to center?!

Dumbfounded, I stared at my failure, unwilling to believe that for the first time in weeks I hadn't gotten it right. Then before what I knew what had happened, a _whoosh _was heard an another arrow appeared on the target, right below mine.

"First shot unlucky?" said Robin, handing me another arrow.

"Th-that doesn't usually happen," I said, still shocked. I reached to grab the offered projectile when, from behind us, there was the sound of someone running. Robin and I turned quickly to see Simple sprinting toward us. As he got closer one could see that he was terrified.

"Master!" He shouted as he ran. "Sheriff's men took the camp! John and the others were taken!"

"Where were you?" I shouted, the noticed that the man was adjusting his trousers. Figures, I thought to myself, then looked to Robin. He wore a very intent expression, and his eyes were darting back and forth almost like he was reading something on the forest floor. Then he shook his head quickly, as if snapping out of a trance and turned to me. "Can your grandmother wait another few hours? Another good shot wouldn't hurt and if we hurry we'll catch them while they're still no the road." As he spoke he adjusted the sword at his back - where had that come from? - and tied the quiver around his waist. "Think of it as repaying me for not leaving a lone woman on the road." His eyes pleaded with me. This Robin guy really seemed to have the wounded puppy look down to an art form.

Not knowing what else to say, I nodded. Robin ran straight to Simple, who had stopped when he reached the clearing, staring at me. Robin grabbed him by the arm and the two started running back towards the camp, and I followed. I had no idea how to get back to the road where they had taken me, so I didn't really have a choice.

For some reason, it didn't occur to me that this might just be another trap. The two men looked so desperate that I really believed that their friends were in trouble. I forgot that we were really just at a glorified Renaissance Faire, and that my first priority should have been to escape. The look in Robin's eyes simply told me that he needed my help, and I'd be happy to provide whatever aid I could.

This should have been my first warning that things were about to get very, very freaky.


End file.
